Ed Noir
by Duhastas the Dark
Summary: "Eddy McGee, private eye, takes a missing persons case that will lead him into a tumultuous power struggle for the city of Peach Creek. As the maelstrom of murder, insanity, and assorted petty crimes envelop him, he will have to find out who it is pulling the strings." Rating will go up eventually.


**A/N: Well, now. Fancy this. Another story by me. I'm gonna be stretching myself thin with what I've got here. Quickly put: It's a detective yarn with the characters of Ed, Edd, n Eddy. It'll emulate film noir elements and characteristics, more than a few cliches. Hell, maybe it'll even have some comedy thrown in. All the while, I'll be doing my best to have the characters retain their personalities from the show, or at least the most prominent traits. The rating is T at the moment, but it _will_ climb once the most brutal bits begin. Just keep it in mind.**

**Truthfully, a big part of this is in clearing my mind from certain matters. This is more a personal project than anything else. Reviews are... somewhat less important here, and updates will be less organized than even my other story's (feel free to laugh here). One way or the other, I hope you enjoy my cliche, blithering attempt at a detective yarn. **

**Ed, Edd, n Eddy and all associated characters are the property of AKA Cartoons and Danny Antonucci.**

* * *

Peach Creek.

What is there to say about this city? It's dirtier than yesterday's garbage and twice as slimy. Here you're more likely to get a knife in the back than a handshake, and you best say thank you if you do. Gangs and families run rampant, and "candy" litters the street like last season's election pamphlets. The air is thick and musty with the noise and smell of a bustling city. But it's _my_ stinking city.

Some folks here are rich. Filthy, stinkin' rich. Others, like yours truly, are not, but they wanna be. In this city, there's always a new sucker to squeeze a dollar from. And I love meeting new people.

The name's Eddy McGee. Private Eye. At least I used to be one. That job burned me harder than any dame or flame ever did. Ended up losing more than a quarter over it, if you understand what I mean. It's true what they say, though. You can take the detective out of the streets. But they'll find him again, sooner or later.

* * *

I was in Bobo the Clam from sundown on. It was raining outside. The pitter-patter of raindrops on the windows made sure I remembered that. The sleazy little bar sits on the northern part of town, just a few blocks away from the police station. It's not much in the way of style. The place has many tables, a surprising amount of them in the corners, and of course a bar. Two waiters, Victor and Wilfred, tended to them. Rolf, the owner, manned the bar. The scent of cigar smoke and cheap liquor cloyed the air like smog. Bobo's had exactly one lightbulb, and it ain't nearly enough to cover the whole establishment. But that suited me just fine. I wasn't in a spotlight kind of mood, and Bobo's was the sort of place you went to when you want to forget and be forgotten.

The private eye shindig had dried up, I was on the nut, and my office sat dusty and unused in the northeastern part of Peach Creek. My name was still on the door, but it was only a matter of time until some new shmuck came along for the rent. That was no problem of mine. Few things really are.

I finished my business transaction with the glass of whiskey, the once burning taste nothing more than a numb sensation on my tongue these days. I'd just lost my month's earnings to some sap at the corner table. It hadn't been that much moolah, but the loss stung like a dog bite bathed in whiskey. Thinking back, I know now that deck had five aces and six kings in it, and half the cards up the slimy weasel's sleeve.

I signaled Rolf to come over. The tall, foreign barman approached me, wiping a glass. He laid it in front of me and poured a generous amount of scotch into it. At least four of my stubby little fingers. I'd already tipped a few, but it was appreciated. Rolf always claimed his Nana taught him to brew that whiskey himself. As far as I could tell, it was true. This was the classy stuff. Well, as classy as you can get in a smoky box. I have to say, Stretch has never lacked in generosity.

"Rough night, Ed boy?" he asked, picking up an empty glass from further down the bar. Tall bastard didn't even have to take a step.

He always called me "Ed boy" for some reason. I let it go, easy. I'd thought it was a jibe at my stoutness at first, but soon dismissed the idea. I had learned to stop questioning his quirks after a while. The man had as many twists and turns to his culture as a hedge maze did, and just as much likeliness to get lost forever inside of. I'm not saying he's a weasel, but for all his kindness, the man never told me a straight line of truth.

Not a surprising thing, in this city. Here, the honest get swallowed up by the city scum like a shot of bourbon.

"You don't know the half of it, Stretch," I growled into the glass, taking a swig from its contents. Again, the familiar burn never came. It reminded me of how much I had been drinking lately. My tongue had grown numb to the taste. I idly scratched the crook of my elbow, swirling my drink with the motion, staring into the amber liquid.

"Tell Rolf," the bartender said, placing both hands on the bar, looking at me with a kindly smile. "Perhaps the son of a shepherd can help." For a moment I thought about telling him all that was wrong. Then I remembered which city we lived in.

"Don't you have drinks to serve tonight?" I asked, taking another sip from the glass. Rolf snorted.

"Look around you, Ed boy. Does it look like Rolf is swimming in business?" he asked, making a grand sweep with his arm, illustrating his entire establishment. I looked about, and had to admit he had a point. I was the only patron at the bar. The other tables, few as they were, were being dutifully attended by Victor. I assumed Wilfred was in the back, on his smoke break.

"Come on. Tell Rolf what makes your turnips look like beets." I paused, trying to make heads or tails of what he'd just said. I gave it up. Like I said, the man's culture is an enigma.

But before I opened my mouth to tell him what I thought he could do to help, namely pouring another drink, the door opened. I could tell instantly that it was a dame. Maybe it was the soft way she'd knocked before entering. Maybe it was the silence that fell over the hushed whispers of the bar. Maybe it was a wisp of her perfume reaching me before her footsteps did. Maybe it was just how some men can tell a woman's approaching.

I turned to get a slant on her. All it took was a single look to know she was Trouble, with a capital T. My momma always said a dame like that would get me killed. There was still time to prove her right, I suppose.

She wore a short black dress, well fit in all the right places. And she wore it well. It revealed just enough to make a man's imagination go hog wild, but covered enough to be modest. It gave me a pretty nice view of long straight legs, the kind you'd want to follow into the gates of Hell. Dazzling golden hair, so bright the very room felt brighter when she walked in, fell just past her shoulders, framing her beautiful face like an angel's halo. Her lips were full and crimson, like apples ripe and ready to be picked. She had what my momma would've called an angel's face, and the golden halo might've made you believe she was one gotten lost on her way to paradise. Unless you took a glance at her eyes.

Those eyes were the tell. They let me know this looker was real, bona fide trouble. The kind of trouble that no cop can help you with; the kind that keeps bartenders and drink brewers in business. Stronger men than me had crumbled to bits before those eyes. And she knew it.

She was walking towards me. There was a sway in her hips that I had seen twice in my life before. The first time, I'd come out with a strut in my step. The second, I'd come out with a limp and a bullet in my gut.

She got closer. I cursed my choice of a yellow suit. It had seemed flashy and eye-catching at the time of purchase; both of them things I wanted to be regularly, and both of them things I did not want to be at the moment.

She took a pause before speaking. Woman like that, she's used to giving men a moment to take in the view. The courtesy was well appreciated, I can tell you that much.

"Good evening," she said, her voice somewhere south of a sigh, but north of a whisper. "I've heard you're a private detective." The scent of roses reached my nostrils. A classy perfume if I ever smelt one. This dame literally smelled of money.

"You could be one yourself, Toots, with skills like that," I said, maybe a bit too drily to be coy. I left it up to her whether I was being sarcastic or straight with her. I'd come to Bobo's on purpose. There was little in this part of town for me, so few people would think to look. However, it was a well known haunt of mine when the chips were down. I had to admit, I was curious.

She took it as a compliment, smiling and sliding into the seat next to me. She crossed her legs, giving me a nice long look at them. I managed to catch Rolf's attention, and motioned for him to pour the lady a drink. She smiled appreciatively as the bartender poured a mixture, one of them fancy cocktails.

"You're not an easy man to find, Mr. McGee," she murmured, picking up the glass daintily.

"I know I'm not, doll. And I hardly think a pretty face like yours would walk into a bar like this of her own interest. How'd you find me?" I asked as nonchalantly as possible, taking a sip from my drink.

"A little money goes a long way in this town," she answered with a smirk. A ring on her finger winked at me. 'A little' might not be the correct term for this dame to use. "And knowing the right people, of course."

_The right people._ Just a fancy way of saying she knew some big name. A few options flashed through my mind. Mr. Plank, the Kanker Sisters, that bastard Jib... none of them had the class to associate with this kind of woman, except for Mr. Plank. And I had a gut feeling she wasn't the type who'd work for old Woodface.

"Well, Toots. I'm sorry to burst your bubble," I began as I stood up and put on my hat. I tipped it to Rolf, and he sighed. My tab was growing large, I knew. "But I'm no P.I. Go see the cops for this. I'm sure they'll take whatever case you have."

"That's just the thing, Mr. McGee," she said as she sipped her drink, cool as a cucumber. In her mind's eye, there was no way I'd leave. I was planning on proving her wrong, but my will has never been that strong. "I would like to keep this... under wraps, if at all possible. I'm willing to pay well for this." Now this, this stopped me. The almighty dollar, being offered by the most stunning woman I'd ever meet. It seemed too good to be true. I turned to look at her, intrigued. Her triumphant smile let me know she'd already won. She had me hook, line, and sinker.

I went back to my stool, all wariness forgotten. Once money gets involved in the situation, I seem to lose all sense of self-preservation.

"My name is Nazz van Bartonschmeer. I'm here, Mr. McGee, because there's a person I need found," she said. "One Monsieur Yum-yum." I quirked an eyebrow. The name was new to me. Unusual, given that I'd dealt with most of the scum living beneath the surface of Peach Creek's sunny face.

"Yum-yum? I don't think I've ever heard of any Yum-yum fellow," I said. Rolf had already poured another drink for me. I'd need to tip the man one of these days. Nazz shook her head at me.

"You haven't. He's foreign... or so he says. Showed up out of nowhere a few weeks ago. Classy fellow. But he disappeared some days ago. Missed a business appointment. And Ji- A friend," she corrected herself, "wants him found, fast."

"Jimmy." I filled in for her. Her look told me all I needed to know. I'd hit the nail on the head. There was only one man in the city dandy enough to deal with fancy foreigners but still dirty enough to want the P.D. out of the matter.

Jimmy the Snitch. Now there's a name I hadn't heard in a while. He had a certain weight in the city. Nothing heavy, like Mr. Plank or nothin'. He'd earned that name a few years back when he sold out one of Mr. Plank's boys in exchange for his freedom. Word was the King of the City hadn't taken that well. Word also was Jimmy regularly bought dentures. Call me twitchy, but I think Mr. Plank's boys might have been doing a little pro bono 'dentistry work' for Jimmy.

The only reason he was still out of prison was because the police had never caught him doin' something blatantly illegal, and the only reason he was still alive was because all criminals knew Jimmy, and Jimmy knew everybody. He drank out of the same bottle as half the stinkin' town. The perfect liaison... so long as you knew how to encode your messages.

And now he'd lost a friend. A foreigner with an obviously fake name, and something to hide. This case smelled bad enough to set dogs barking a mile away. I'd been a detective for long enough to know a trap when I hear one. And this one had bells wrapped on it.

Then again, some bells are made of gold. And I could use the money.

"Alright, doll," I said, downing my whiskey. "I'll take your case. Meet me tomorrow at my office. Bring a check."

Nazz smiled at me and got closer, until I could feel the heat radiating off her chest onto my arm. Slender fingers reached into my coat pocket. Then she slipped them back out and patted the check she'd left inside.

"Good choice, Mr. McGee," she whispered.

* * *

Ms. van Bartonschmeer agreed to tell me about Yum-yum the next day. I'd arrived earlier than usual, to make sure the coat of dust over my desk was gone. A quick wipe made sure it was.

Nazz arrived a little later than we'd agreed upon, but a woman like that, I assume she's used to being given leniency. I certainly was ready to give her some. She'd worn a blue dress, longer than the slinky getup from the night before. But she still looked radiant. I had the notion that this woman would look good in anything.

"What can Eddy McGee help you with, doll?" I asked her, leaning back in my seat, with a drink in my hand. Above us, the fan spun lazily, its lightbulb illuminating the office well. Rainy as the night had been, the day had started off the same. I'd had to pull down the blinds to avoid looking at the dreary day outside.

Nazz sat down and crossed those long, long getaway sticks of hers again, a motion both forbidding and hypnotizing. I had to take a drink to keep from staring. At this rate, this woman would be the end of my liver.

"Like I said yesterday, Mr. McGee," she began, folding her hands on her lap, "I need someone found."

"I got that far, darlin'. But let's start from the beginning, shall we?" I asked, leaning back further, whiskey still in my hand. "Tell me everything."

Nazz was only too willing to talk. She told me a tale, a yarn more twisted than Rolf's Nana's sweater. It started off just like another case of "where's daddy", but turned tail faster than a kicked mutt.

The skinny of it was Yum-yum might be behind the eight ball on this one. He was a sneaky little man, claimed to be French. He'd first talked with Jimmy over the phone a week ago, asking him to meet him at the market. Jimmy agreed, and they met there, but headed for lunch at a fancy little cafe, one "Antonucci's", down main street. Yum-yum had gotten up in the middle of the meeting and walked off, saying he'd recognized someone, but didn't return after.

Jimmy feared a setup, and quickly ran off for safe haven. His apartment, in this case. But Yum-yum still hadn't turned up. Jimmy knew something was up, and wanted the flighty little rabbit found. Whether it was to make sure he was safe, or to "talk" to him a little...

Well, that was Yum-yum's problem, not mine.

After I was done listening to this broad's tale, I considered everything I knew. I didn't want to come back to this job. The pay wasn't good. The risks were many. My gut still ached if I picked up heavy items. But something about her case intrigued me. Drew me in. Like a moth to the deadly flame of a candle. The crook of my elbow itched, but I suppressed the urge to scratch.

"I'll take the case," I finally said. "My rates are twenty-five dollars a day, plus expenses." Nazz just smiled.

"I think you'll find the payment in your pocket more than accommodating to your fee, Mr. McGee," she said, and stood up.

"There's one more thing," I said. She stopped on the way to my door, a puzzled expression on her face. Something made me retract my first question. Somehow, I felt this skirt's answers weren't going to be half as straight as her legs. "This Yum-yum man. Any idea where I'll find 'im?"

"If I knew, Mr. McGee, I wouldn't have come to you," she said. And then she was gone, faster than a cat hounded by a pooch. All she left was the faint scent of roses cloying the air in my office. I leaned back and took a deep breath.

The case smelled rotten from the start, even through Ms. van Bartonschmeer's fancy roses. There are certain scents that can't be covered by even the strongest and most expensive perfume. The scent of trouble, of money, and of the street can never be completely hidden. Not from someone who reeks of the same wind. And if there is a single part of my body that I trust, it's my schnozzle. It's never led me astray, and it has the curious knack of sniffing out profit.

I downed my drink and put the glass back on the table. Then I got up and grabbed my coat, heading for the door. Antonucci's was on main street, bordering on the western part of town.

Not a good part of Peach Creek to take a nighttime stroll through. A knife in the ribs can be the least of your problems in that particular neighborhood. What had Monsieur Yum-yum and Jimmy been doing there? I meant to find out. And to do that, I would have to talk to the owner of Antonucci's.

Hitting the streets has always been the easiest way to track down a lead for me. The feel of the pavement under my shoes, of the rain on my hat, the stench of the city around me. All of these mix and stir together in a man's chest and head, and if the man is intelligent enough and listens to his instincts, they will lead him straight to his prey.

But as much as I loathed to admit it, I'd need help to track down this slippery little rabbit. There are people to the west of Peach Creek that like to talk with their fists. And while I'm fluent in their tongue, I find it hard to keep up in a conversation when several people keep yammering. I'd need some muscle. I'd need the monobrow.

Lucky for me, I knew just where to find him.

* * *

**A/N: There we go. Chapter 1 done. Like I said, although this is more a personal project than anything else, I still hope you get some enjoyment from it. Have a good night, everybody!**


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